A beautiful story like telling of the seasons and changes to nature. The prose rolls and spins a tale of beauty and gives a feel of life to inatimacy as seen in this description.

The painter of landscapes seen in dreams must be a memory that knows fantastic woods and faery seas all strange to the waking memory. Or else the artist is only a weariness with the day just past that gives us in sleep sight of the country which, so Mr. Maugham and other story-tellers say, is the real home that men may go their whole lives long without finding, because we are not always born at home, nor even brought up there, and we might for years be homesick for a land unseen. Once beheld, the recognition is instant, and in the foreign place begins a vita nuova-relief and an intensity of living never known before the new and familiar harbor came down to meet us at the shore. So sometimes it is in dreams.